Too Long
by Miss British Teacakes
Summary: An ongoing writer-doodle about the early days of Schwartz. Shonen-ai, BS
1. Chapter 1

I should be doing something. Not sitting here, pulling a comb through my hair and marveling at its perfection in the mirror. Except, I really don't feel like it. What does he _want_ me to do, anyway? And on that subject, where the hell is he?

But there he is in the doorway to the small living room, and now we're heading down to the mess hall to eat the complete shit they call food.

Did I ever mention that Rosenkreuz in perhaps the shittiest place to stay in?

The other teams at the long table spare us a glance, before turning away. This is a lot, considering the number of people that pass through the building. It's rare to ever spare _anybody_ a second glance. But I know that we look good together. I am well known here as the wild card. Crawford's reputation precedes him, as well. And together, we are truly formidable. Don't cross us, we bite.

I watch him as another leader addresses him, and he gives a short answer. Cold as always, and I can tell he's judging the man behind his mask. It's amazingly sexy when he's like that. Hard, icy power is the heat _he_ radiates. He owns the situation from the moment you make yourself known to him.

I start eating the oatmeal, not taking my eyes off him. Besides the fact that it's eye candy just to watch him, if I pay too much attention to the food I might vomit. They'll serve breakfast's leftovers, which tastes like a bowl of snot when it was _hot_.

Finally I tune into their conversation. Or, at least I meant to. Except that it's already over. He's turned to his food, and the other man is looking at him with annoyance. I push the food away, and give the man a doubtful look. He's looking me up and down, and I lean back and look around the room. Never give _anybody_ too much interest. It will take away from your appearance.

"I want you ready to leave tonight."

I turn to Crawford, and he's pushed his own snot away. He's getting up to leave, and I move to follow.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

He doesn't answer me. Of course, that's the way it always works. It doesn't matter, I'll find out soon, anyway.

It's hard to say who belongs to whom in our relationship. For example, when my class was up for grabs as team members, everybody wanted to be chosen by Crawford; he's rich and he's a powerful precog, and dammit, he's sexy. When I got chosen, I spent the last two weeks of the "card marking" strutting around the building, because Brad Crawford was _mine_, and not anybody else's. I think that's the way it works for him, too. Because I'm the wild card, _nobody_ can tame me. That is, nobody but him. We belong to _each other_, and that's that.

I spend about ten minutes packing my stuff. I know I would have more, would we stay in one place for more than a few days. At least, one place that _wasn't_ Rosenkreuz. I briefly remember that I still owe him 500 American dollars, and 700 German marks. I stole it from him after my short "internship" that was considered part of our training. But then again, I stole about a hundred thousand American dollars in all from various leaders.

I know that he's going to tell me to get some sleep. And so after a few hours of television, I head to "his" room. More like the room we have shared for the last week or so. What can I say? I have an addictive personality. Although I know I'm not going to get any tonight, I still like having a warm body next to mine. It's an added benefit that the warm body just happens to belong to a sexy precog. He gives me a suspicious look when I climb into bed after him. However, when I make no move to initiate anything, he relaxes again.

I can tell he's considering speaking. Once, he acts as if he is going to. However, he changes his mind and closes his mouth. And no amount of nagging is going to make him say what he decided not to say. _It must not be that important_ I think, just before I fall asleep.

He's still in bed when I get up. But that's nothing new. I stare down at him for a few moments. Or rather, his form, as the only part of him I can see is the red of his hair. He'll probably wake once I get up. That's the way it always works. And as much as he hates routines, we have one of our own.

I get out of bed and pick up the pants, shirt, and tie that I had laid out the night before-something that he would never do. I hear rustling from the bed, and a muffled sigh. I don't need to look around to know that he's sitting up in bed, watching me dress. It's all part of our morning routine, of course.

"Get up," I tell him. "We're leaving before breakfast. And that's in about half an hour."

And in the act of defiance that he shows every morning, I hear the flump, and turn around to see that he's pulled the blankets back over his head. I refuse to force him out of bed. No.

I mill about for a little while. I know that he's listening to me, and probably watching when he thinks I don't know. And so I put on my coat, and pick up my bags, and leave.

It's amazing how fast he's out of bed, dressed, and chasing me down the hall. He caught up to me two minutes after I left. I'm sure that he just broke a record. In a way, it's a shame that he still hasn't realized that I would never leave him behind. But it got him out of bed in time, so it's not _that_ much of a shame.

"You still not saying where we're going?" he asks.

"We're going to L. A., to work for one of Esset's _associates_."

Associate meaning somebody not publicly tied to Esset. They're probably piling favors on top of the guy, so that he'll never be able to pay them back. But really, that's none of _our_ business, as much as it might peak my curiosity. Well, really, not so much mine as Schuldig's, as he's used to knowing everything about them after the first meeting. Which will probably happen, the way he is. Then he'll tell me, and I'll tell him that I don't care, as long as we continue to get our weekly salary. Who knows, if he pays us enough, I might just keep him alive longer than two weeks.

"So we're just protecting this guy?" he inquires, pushing his hair behind his shoulders.

"That's why he'll think," I say. "However, Esset fears he might bolt."

"Oh, I see. So we're going there to keep the guy in one place."

"Exactly."

And now, we're out of Rosenkreuz and being chauffeured to the airport. And, as usual, he is complaining both mentally and vocally the whole way.


	2. Chapter 2

What good is life when you don't even really want to move? That's what I'm thinking, as I sit here in the hotel in Los Angeles, waiting for him to return. He's been gone all day, and I am sinking further and further into depression. At least I'm no suicidal yet.

We got to the hotel at about six in the afternoon. And he decided that we should have a two-bedroom suite. Bastard. I've hardly seen him for an hour since we got here, not including nighttime, when he's gone to sleep. Without me.

I finally manage to get off the couch, and onto the floor. Lying there on the carpet, staring at the ceiling, I think that it is very comfortable. I could spend my life here, on the floor of a suite, in a four star hotel. Who needs beds and tables and chairs, anyway? And I think I shall just……go to sleep……

I wake up after dark, and wonder where Crawford is, and why he isn't here. Why does he give a flying fuck about the guy at "the office", when I need him here. I'm more important than that fucker, right? But no, he isn't here with me, who really needs him. He's with that bastard and his stupid "secretary". More than likely he's forgot about me.

I roll over, shaking horribly. Who the hell did I think I was fooling, thinking all those things before? He needs, nor wants, nobody. I feel hot tears flowing down my cheeks. Why was I upset over this? _Am_ I upset over this? What the hell am I crying for?

I hear the door open softly, and close.

"Schuldig."

* * *

The moment I enter, I can tell something is wrong. There's no TV or music going, and no sixteen-year-old jumping and me the moment the door opens. Just silence. 

I walk into the main room to see him lying, face toward the couch. His shoulders are shaking, and I hear a snuffling noise.

"Schuldig," I say.

He makes a small noise of acknowledgement.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing," he snaps back.

"Lying on the floor crying is not exactly nothing," I say, raising an eyebrow.

"Fuck off."

I walk over and sit on the floor next to his head. Not something I am used to doing, nor particularly fond of, but at this point, I don't care that much. I want to know what's wrong with my redhead, and how I can fix it.

"Is it a headache?" I ask, softly.

"Nuh-uh."

"Relapse," I try.

A shrug.

"I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong," I say, looking down my nose. But then, maybe that's not the way to do this.

He sits up, and pulls his knees to his chest, burying his face. I look at him, and very softly touch his back.

"I know you don't being alone in the house all day. I don't like being there myself, but it's a necessary evil to accomplish our plans," I tell him, looking over at him.

He gives a small snort. "And I'm sure ignoring me is also a necessary evil."

"I'm not ignoring you _now_, am I?" I ask him.

"Only because you think your telepath might commit suicide and upset your plans for world domination," he says bitterly. "Don't worry, I sure I'm replaceable."

"You know you're more important to me than that," I tell him, looking at him, to see him peeking out from under his hair. I push a lock of red hair behind an ear. "What can I do to make you feel better?"

He wraps his arms around me, and buries his face in my shoulder. I hug him back, and play with a lock of his hair. He looks up at me, and I give him a soft kiss. He deepens it, and amazes me once again at his expertise at clothes removal. As he nuzzles into my bare stomach, I wonder how he manages to get me into this so fast.

A sigh, and I'm pulling him up and dragging him into the bedroom. This might be the last chance in a while.

* * *

Notes: Well, there's chapter two. Written during a "Dark Stage" for me, so it's not really that exciting or anything.Also, I guess there's something up with the formatting here, cause I have to put big lines in the middle of my story to show a change in POV, instead of the normal stars. Oh well. 


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm going away for a week and a half."

He sits up in bed and looks stares at me.

"What? Why?" He's giving me a look that threatens pouting around the flat before I leave and even while I'm gone.

"There's a business meeting in Japan," I say. Idly, I wonder how effective my attempt at authority will be, considering we're both naked and still in bed. "You'll survive."

"Says who?" He retorts, glaring down at me.

"Says me. I've spoiled you too much." And don't I know it. He always somehow manages to pry exactly what he wants out of me, given time. And maybe, just a little, I _am_ getting a little soft.

No. I will _not_ get soft. I just have a soft spot for _him_. Dammit.

And so through the whole day he's silent, pretending to ignore me as I pack. Finally, as I'm about to walk out the door, I hear the question I knew was going to come.

"Why can't I come too?" he asks. "I never do anything, anyway."

"You have a mission tonight," I say. I take the piece of paper with a man's name and address and hand it to him. "Enter the building at nine. This is your chance to prove your worth, don't mess up."

And I leave the suite with a click of the door.

At nine o'clock by the his laptop's clock, Mr. Minamono hacks into the security systems at the building Schuldig is _supposed_ to be entering. Now he's going to see just what a magician my redhead is.

* * *

I glance up at the clock. A little after six-thirty. I've got time. I look back at the TV, smiling as I watch Peter Sellers accidentally set off alarms. 

Apparently there is a very superstitious Chief of Security, who made sure there were no guards around the building that knew codes and passwords. He doesn't want people to be controlled. Smart man.

_Seems I'll have to do it ninja-style. Or James Bond style. Yeah………James Bond is cool._

"He dragged himself across the floor," a bewildered man on the TV said.

_The Notorious Phantom._ _Charles Phantom, the Notorious Linton._ I smile to myself again.

* * *

Notes: Ugh….the first part of this chapter felt like a wreck. However, my friends said that Brad sounded about right. Anyway, tell me what you think. 

Oh yeah...and I put a direct reference to the original Pink Panther


	4. Chapter 4

The phone is ringing. He won't pick up until I've started leaving a message, I know without even having to See it. It's a paranoia that he has, maybe from living someone who always is looking into the future.

Schuldig has been having a depressed period. It will let up soon, as long as he doesn't do anything stupid. I feel like this is a little stupid, that he should have the emotions of others rub off on him, but what do I know about being a telepath? Maybe some people's thoughts filter through his shields better than others.

Statistics show that 99 percent of telepaths suffer from severe mood swings—the more powerful, the greater the swings. Of that 99 percent, 80 percent commit suicide, and 13 percent are killed in action. Only 7 percent die of old age.

This, however, is only from Esset has gathered.

"Please leave a message after the tone." Beep.

"Mastermind. Pick up the phone." Silence. "_Now_."

Finally, there is the sound of thephone being picked up.

"Yes, I'm still alive. No, I haven't been cutting myself."

"I know that," I say. "Mission?"

"You know what happened."

"For the record." He does this every time.

"Complete."

"Was it the challenge you hoped for?"

He laughs on the other end. Just from that, I can tell his answer. "No," he says. "Not by a long shot."

"Maybe they will get the idea that they should give us something a little harder," I say, with the raise of an eyebrow he can't see. "I don't want you getting bored."

I know what happens when her gets bored. He makes a point to _find_ something interesting. His confidence gets stretched out of proportion, he gets lazy, and I'm the one that has to clean up his mess.

"Don't worry."

I don't worry. Not until I find out if I can See what I will happen. Unlike telepathy, precognition is a fickle mistress. She is the one who decides when to cooperate, and if I try to force her, she whacks it at me with the force of a headache that might rival what Schuldig might give his victims, should he wish. Then I have to take the medicine reserved for when his shields crash—the ones that can knock you out for the rest of the day.

* * *

I lay down on the couch of the hotel suite and light a cigarette. 

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I'm not naked, if that's what you're asked."

"Fuck you."

"I'm doing paperwork," he replies.

I sigh. "Always doing paperwork."

"We're heading back soon."

"What?" I don't want to go back. "Are we really done so soon?"

"No," he says. "We're looking for a new member."

Now he has my interest. "You don't know who, yet?"

"Of course I know," he says, calm as always. "But we need our timing to be right, or it won't happen."

"How old?"

"Nine, I believe."

"Nine? There's no _way_ they're going to let us have a nine-year-old," I say, incredulously.

"We'll see about that." He then says, "We'll be leaving in two weeks. Enjoy yourself while you can."

"Do you know where we're going next?" I ask.

"I've Seen us in Kyoto at some point, but I'm not sure exactly when."

"Kyoto? As in Japan Kyoto?"

"Yes," he tells me. "Sometime this year."

"Anything else?"

"…I'll talk about it later. Not on the phone."

He hangs up the phone. I listen to the dead-tone for a moment before slamming the phone back. Asshole. Why the hell can't _I_ be the one to hang up for once?

_Cause he's a fucking control-freak, that's why._ I want to shut myself up, but I can't. I know it's true.

But I have control in one thing that he'll never know or understand.

And that's the way people work. I don't need to make guesses on how people are reacting. It makes me satisfied to know that.

"You asshole."

* * *

Notes: Yes. I know I haven't written in a while. And I lost my "Brad" (thank God…sort of…), so he'll probably be more out of character for a while. Until I get used to the stick-up-the-ass-control-freak-but-not-totally bit. Advice on his would be helpful. 

I'll try to update as much as possible. However, I'm trying to get myself into passing range for my German class, so it may not be as often as you hope. But I promise, I won't go a year at a time again.

And I lost my flashdrive with a lot of my files. Wish me luck in finding it!


	5. Chapter 5

The American is talking on the phone. I think he is exasperated, but I'm still learning about the tones of voice when it comes to other languages. For a while, I thought he was singing to other people, then I realized they _all_ talk like that.

I look at him and realize he's deadpanning—his looks put upon. He hangs up the phone, and gazes at me with an unreadable expression.

"Who was that?" I ask.

"Schuldig. I was telling him how much longer we'd be here," he says, in his funny-sounding Japanese. I wouldn't be surprised if he had learned it just before coming here.

"Will I meet him?" I ask.

"You'll be _living_ with him."

Something in me sinks, and I try my best to squash the feeling. The American isn't what anybody would call nice, but he is the one person who never hated or feared me for what I am. It's almost as if he sees it all the time.

Crawford. I have to keep telling myself that. I almost never call people by their names. But something in me hopes that if I say it enough, maybe I won't have to go to another unwelcome place. Not that he ever welcomed me, really.

When I think about it, I hear a lot about this "Schuldig". Crawford's always calling him on the phone. And yet, despite hearing about him, I don't really _know_ anything about him. Schuldig is the mystery. I know he is the only person I have seen yet who can annoy Crawford. That's all I know. It doesn't make any sense, to hear about someone, but never find anything out about the person.

Crawford moves to the desk running on the side of one wall, and takes out papers. I watch him work in silence for a few moments. Then I creep over, and climb on a chair next to him, looking at what he is writing. I can't read the letters. He looks at me and gives a small smile.

"Can you read this?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"They didn't teach you." I shake my head at again.

"Will you write your name?" My voice comes out smaller than I expected.

He writes eight characters on a sheet of hotel stationary. I've seen it written in katakana, only four characters. They don't write sounds the way we do. I try to say his name and put the sounds to the letters. No matter how I try, it always comes out wrong. If his Japanese sounds funny, my English must sound REALLY funny. _Cuu-lo-foh-du._ I scowl at my terrible pronunciation, and try again. _Cu-llo-fohd_. I sigh.

"Will you write _my_ name?" I ask, this time with a little more hope.

He writes another eight letters, in two groups. _Nagi Naoe_. He then writes another eight. _Schuldig_. I take the paper and fold it. I put it in the small suitcase he bought me with my new clothes. Inside the shiny new shoes that I haven't had the courage to wear yet, for fear that they'd scuff.

"Arigato, Culoford-san," I say.

He nods to me. He's a man of few words.

* * *

Brad Crawford has called again.

"There's been a change in events."

"Hm?"

"The kid has changed the course," he says. "He freaked out and blew up the orphanage he was at."

"So does that mean we don't get him?" I ask.

"No," he says. "That means I already have him. I managed to find him and take him into custody, and they gave me permission to 'raise' him, instead of taking him to Rosenkreuz."

"…"

"Schuldig."

"You have way too many fucking connections," I tell him.

"I would prefer if you didn't swear when we come back," he says. "I would like him to learn proper English."

"Fuck you. I _do_ speak proper fucking English." Okay, so now I'm just doing this to piss him off.

"Which reminds me," he says. "Mission?"

I roll my eyes. "You already know."

"Indulge me."

"Successful. With the minimum casualties. Nice and neat. Just like you like it."

He hangs up without a word. Again.

Once again, I call him an asshole, without him being able to hear.

* * *

Notes: Yay. I love Nagi.

I was thinking about how hard it must be for Japanese people to say western names. I also had a visitor from Japan once ask my dad not to sing when he was talking, that he couldn't understand. It was kinda funny, so I put it in the story.

I would _love_ reviews.

Added note (after this was uploaded): You ever feel like you're ready to kill someone? If you found this on hopeforlorn (or moderate the site...) know that my email went and mootilated this, and for some reason took out the dividers >. 


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